


5 Times Sherlock Realizes He Doesn't Fit In and Once He Unexpectedly Does

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Drug Use, Gen, Kidlock, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From his earliest days, Sherlock has always felt out of place for a lot of different reasons. 5 moments when he realizes he doesn't fit in with society, and once when he unexpectedly finds somewhere he does fit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Stupid, I'm a Genius

“But, Mum, I don’t want to,” Sherlock said, his voice a petulant whine, pulling his mother’s hand so she had to drag him up to the school. 

“But, why, Sherlock? Don’t you want to go to school like Mycroft?” Mrs. Holmes sounded genuinely puzzled, but then, Sherlock thought, she often did. Mycroft said it was because no one, even their parents, understood them. Sherlock, having no one else to compare himself to, was forced to believe his brother. He didn’t like it at all; he was sure that he’d be even worse off than Mycroft. At least Mycroft was clever. 

“No,” Sherlock said, making sure his face was arranged in a well-done pout. His mother smiled sympathetically, pushing his black hair out of his eyes. Normally, he hated these displays of maternal affection, but today, he thought if he accepted it she might not make him go. Mycroft hated school, especially after this year when he’d finally been accelerated three years. He’d always been ahead academically, but now he was so much younger than the other students that it was more like torture. Plus he was still bored; he was still far ahead of his classmates academically, regardless of the age difference. Not that Sherlock’s parents noticed much of anything. Mycroft was quick to hide his difficulties adjusting, so that only Sherlock knew about them. On any other occasion he would have been proud to be taken into his brother’s confidence; today he was only annoyed and little nervous about his own prospects at school.

“Why not, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock didn’t meet her eyes, instead scuffing his brand new shoes on the ground. “Everyone’s going to think I’m stupid,” he finally said quietly. “Mycroft does.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Holmes said. “No one here will have been to school before. They’ll all be starting at the same place. And Mycroft is twelve, of course you don’t know as much as he does.”

Sherlock shrugged but listlessly let his mother take him into the school building. That wasn’t what he meant, and she knew it. By age five, Mycroft had mastered the quadratic equation and was working his way through Shakespeare. Sherlock had only just begun reading Dickens and had almost finished learning the basics of algebra. He was leagues behind Mycroft, something his brother never let him forget.

Sherlock watched his mother talk quietly with the teacher, both of them shooting glances at him every so often. He hated it when people had conversations he couldn’t listen in on, but the room was filled with twenty-five other children, all screaming and laughing at the same time. Sherlock was more than a little taken aback, his senses overwhelmed. 

“Well, hello, Sherlock,” the teacher said brightly, coming over to talk to him. “How about you come over here? I have some art supplies.” Anything that got him away from the giant horde of children was fine with Sherlock and he settled into drawing himself and Mycroft with the chemistry set their father had given them for Christmas. He was working hard on accurately portraying the burns he’d gotten when the experiment went slightly overboard when the teacher asked him what he was drawing.

“It’s our chemistry set. We’re mixing peroxide with water. Only a little, because if you use too much the explosion is too big,” Sherlock explained. 

“Oh,” the teacher said, not really sure where to go from there. “And who’s that?”

“That’s Mycroft. He’s my brother,” Sherlock said. “He thinks I’m stupid.”

“And why does he think that?” 

“I can’t read Shakespeare yet,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly. 

The teacher was about to explain that no five-year-old could be expected to read Shakespeare when the boy sitting across from Sherlock looked up, “You have a spear? I wanna shake a spear. Can I have it?”

Sherlock’s expression grew confused, “No, I don’t have a spear. I meant Shakespeare.”

“What’s a Shakespeare?” the other boy asked, then shrugged and went back to his drawing. Sherlock was about to go back to his when the girl on his other side shoved him out of the way to hand her drawing to the teacher.

“Look it’s a elephant,” she said happily.

“An elephant,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Huh?” the girl said.

“It’s an elephant,” Sherlock said, looking to the teacher for confirmation. “You’re saying it wrong.”

“You’re mean,” the girl said, turning her back on him and looking as if she was about to cry.

“But you’re wrong,” Sherlock said, not understanding why anyone would get upset about this. He hated to look stupid; if someone corrected him he made sure he never made the same mistake again.

“Sherlock, that may be but we don’t treat people like they don’t know what they’re doing. Now say you’re sorry,” the teacher admonished. Sherlock glared at her. Why was he getting in trouble? It was everyone else that was out of control; he was the only one who understood anything. He pointedly did not say sorry, and ignored the teacher for the rest of the day, except when she announced that she was going to read to them.

“Why?” Sherlock asked. 

“Why what, Sherlock?” the teacher answered patiently.

“Why are you reading to us? Can’t we just read for ourselves?” He found being read to distracting. There was too much to look at, and here, too many other people around, getting themselves in his thinking space. 

The teacher sighed, “Class, raise your hands if you can read on your own.” Nobody’s hand but Sherlock’s went up. “Now raise your hand if you haven’t learned to read yet.” Everyone else’s hand shot up. Sherlock’s eyes widened. Why hadn’t Mycroft told him none of the other students would even be able to read? What was he even doing here? 

“See, Sherlock? This is school. This is where people come to learn to read. It’s wonderful that you already can. But not everyone can, and that’s what I’m here for,” the teacher said, the barest note of impatience entering her voice before she went back to the story. For his part, Sherlock sank into a sulk that didn’t lift until he went home and sought out Mycroft.

“You told me I was stupid!” Sherlock yelled, standing in his brother’s bedroom door. “You’re wrong. I’m not stupid, everyone else is! They can’t even read yet!” He was furious but to his surprise, Mycroft just sighed.

“I suppose I knew you couldn’t be as slow as I thought. Enjoy it while it lasts, little brother. You’ll tire of them soon enough.”

“I won’t. I’m tired of you,” Sherlock said with five-year-old defiance before slamming his bedroom door shut, leaving Mycroft to shake his head. He was right, of course, but Sherlock was too stubborn to ever admit it.


	2. I Don't Have Friends

Parties are stupid, Sherlock thought, watching his parents and his aunts and uncles laughing and talking about all the boring minutiae of their lives. There was a dance floor but no one was using it, and besides, the music was out of key. 

“I see they spared no expense,” Mycroft said, joining his brother at the empty table, which had condescendingly been termed the “kids’ table.” Both Sherlock and Mycroft had strongly objected to having to sit there, with no success. At sixteen, Mycroft was already in his second year of university, having entered three years ahead of his age group. Sherlock, at nine, was accelerated by two years, a fact that usually led to arguments between them. But at an event like this, Sherlock and Mycroft always banded together in solidarity against their more ordinary cousins.

“You mean the music?” Sherlock asked. “The violins are out of tune and the drummer can’t keep time.” It had been bothering him all night.

“You really must learn to pick up on sarcasm,” Mycroft responded with patient exasperation.

Sherlock threw his brother a dirty look but then sighed and looked at their extended family spread around the room. “Are all people this dull?” 

“You’re been to school,” Mycroft responded, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. Going to class each day had quickly become tortuous, not so much because of the constant bullying, but because his mind was aching to move ahead to something interesting, and he was always forced to slow down to the snail’s pace of the other students. 

“But they’re just people. I thought our family would be at least a little more interesting,” Sherlock said, gesturing around at their extended family with an air of hopelessness.

Mycroft considered this, until he nodded in understanding. “You’re thinking of Mummy’s family. This is Dad’s family. They can’t each have an Uncle Rudy, can they?” Their mother’s family was full of eccentrics, although none reached the levels of genius of Mycroft and Sherlock. They rarely saw their father’s family, for reasons Mycroft had figured out long ago and Sherlock wasn’t interested in. “They’re much more ordinary, aren’t they?” he added with slight disdain.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and exhaled exasperatedly, “And so boring. Does Aunt Cindy know that Uncle Ralph is cheating on her?”

“I doubt it,” Mycroft said. “You could tell her. It would certainly liven things up a bit. What about Cousin Kayla?”

“What about her?” Sherlock asked, scrutinizing his eldest cousin, whose graduation party this was. “She’s a football player, she’s going to study finance and she’s already a little drunk from the alcohol she snuck before the party.”

“Yes, you’re right, there’s nothing else special about her,” Mycroft said, sounding disappointed. “Your deductions have improved, however.” A small look of triumph crossed Sherlock’s face; his dependence on Mycroft’s tutoring to hone his observational skills was a sore point and every improvement was cause for celebration. 

“Hey, weirdos,” their cousin Frank interrupted, arriving back at their table with their seven-year-old cousin William.

“You’re weird,” Sherlock shot back at him, knowing it was a weak insult, but Frank had hated him ever since Sherlock had skipped to the year ahead of him, despite being a year younger. Sherlock had never understood it; he wouldn’t have cared what year any of his cousins, or anyone else, was in. He just wanted them all to leave him alone. 

Frank ignored this, instead using his spoon to lob butter pats in Sherlock’s direction, giggling with William. At first, it was amusing to see how badly they missed their aim; one of the pats even landed in Great-aunt Millie’s bag. But after one hit Mycroft in the eye, they lost their patience. 

“Very mature, boys. I’m sure your parents will be thrilled with the waste of food,” Mycroft said lazily, wiping the butter off his face. His warning had the desired effect. Mycroft oozed authority, even at sixteen, and both younger boys suddenly shied away from making him angry.

“That’s the kids’ table; you don’t want to sit there. I only just got away from that table,” Kayla said with a laugh, coming over with her boyfriend.

“Once you graduate, you’re done with the kids’ table?” the boyfriend asked.

Mycroft fake smiled, “Not exactly. Otherwise I’d be done with this table too.”

“Oh,” Kayla said, her expression turning to a sulk. “That’s my cousin Mycroft. He’s already in his second year of uni. But he’s only sixteen so he still has to sit here.”

“Oh, so you’re a little genius then,” Kayla’s boyfriend said mockingly, looking down at Mycroft. 

“Not so little,” Kayla said with a giggle, and now Mycroft flushed red. His weight problems were well known; doctors put it down to a thyroid condition, but he still worked hard to try to lose the weight. 

Sherlock stood up to his full height, shaking with anger. He’d never seen anyone make fun of his brother before. “Leave Mycroft alone! Or I’ll tell them you have cigarettes in your purse.”

Kayla’s eyes opened wide in shock, “How do you know about that? Tell me!”

“You’ve got some ash on your dress,” Sherlock said, pointing to the few errant pieces of ash that were caught in the sash around her waist. 

“Oh my God, that’s never going to come out,” Kayla said frantically wiping the ash so it spread all over the front of the dress. “You little brat!” she yelled at Sherlock before dragging her boyfriend away. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction; at least until he saw Kayla’s mother heading their way across the unused dance floor.

“What did you say to her to make her that upset at her own party? I won’t tolerate this!” 

“But Aunt Jodie-” Sherlock started to say before she sighed and turned to Sherlock’s mother, who had noticed all the commotion.

“Really, can’t you teach them to at least behave as if they were normal?” Aunt Jodie snapped at her before stomping away.

“Boys, what happened?” Mrs. Holmes asked quietly, aware that most of the family was now watching them. Mycroft just shook his head while Sherlock’s breathing was fast and heavy with anger. 

“Kayla said-” Sherlock started to say, but Mycroft cut him off.

“It was nothing. Can we please just go now? We should never have come in the first place,. Mycroft rarely let any emotion show, but he appeared close to desperate now. Sherlock felt his sympathy rise. His own first reaction to social occasions was to leave as quickly as possible, but now he thought that Mycroft had the better idea in simply not attending at all. Being with people meant, more often than not, that they would be ridiculed for simply being themselves. He already found the world too social for his tastes; this just made it twice as difficult. 

Mrs. Holmes smiled sympathetically, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, love. We have to stay at least until the cake is served.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and Sherlock sunk into a despondent slouch, watching her leave. They hadn’t expected much more. Their mother may have been a genius in her own field, but she was notoriously scatterbrained when it came to everything practical. 

“I hate people,” Sherlock burst out. “Why do they expect us to be like them? Why can’t they be more like us?” People thought he and Mycroft were rude, but really, if they didn’t have to constantly try and defend themselves against everyone’s made-up rules, they would just leave everyone alone. Couldn’t everyone be more like that?

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mycroft said tiredly. “But they’re all like that. This is what they want us to be friends with.” He spit the word out as if it was poisonous.

“Well, I don’t want to be friends with anybody,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms and refusing to even look at the cake. “I don’t need them. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Sherlock, Mycroft and their parents started to leave not long after that, and while saying good bye to their aunts and uncles and cousins, Sherlock and Mycroft were astonished to see their mother, approaching Aunt Jodie in the line, reach up and smack her across the face.

Aunt Jodie was clearly just as shocked, holding her cheek and spluttering angrily. Sherlock’s mother glared at her said, “If I ever hear you saying anything about my children not being ‘normal’ ever again, I shall throw you into the nearest rubbish bin.” She then smiled sweetly, and the four of them left amid a chorus of “See where they get it from?” Not that it mattered to Sherlock and Mycroft at that moment. They were living in the satisfaction of seeing their mother have one small victory on their behalf. It was only a small thing in the face of the constant pressure of the world telling them they were wrong, but for now, it was enough.


	3. High Functioning Sociopath?

The phone rang right before dinner, sometime after Sherlock had been put to work cutting up potatoes. He smirked to himself. He knew deliberately targeting his main bullies for humiliation in PE would come back to haunt him eventually. But, really, it was so easy. A few missteps, some small rearrangements of the equipment and they were the center of the teasing that he endured from them constantly. 

“Hello?” Sherlock’s father answered the phone. “Oh, yes, Headmaster. How are you?” This wasn’t the first, or even the fifteenth time Sherlock’s headmaster had called home. Mr. Holmes paused, looking at Sherlock with concern. “Well, I see, but…are you sure…no, but…well, if you think so. Thank you.” He hung up the phone, looking at his twelve-year-old son with a “worried parent” expression. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d grown past his father’s ability to understand him long ago. “Sherlock? Your Headmaster says you’ve been bullying students in PE.”

Sherlock was instantly on the defensive. “So I’m not allowed to bully them but it’s perfectly OK for them to treat me like I’m dirt under their shoes?” he asked sharply, deliberately not looking his father in the eye. He truly didn’t understand what the difference was. Unless the difference was what it always was; that his classmates were considered “normal,” and therefore untouchable, while he was an outcast who nobody wanted to be seen supporting. 

“Sherlock, he said you were planning it ahead of time. He said there was no way this could have happened unless you’d spent time thinking about it,” his father was trying to look angry, but failing, because he also looked at least partially heartbroken. He may never have understood either of his sons, but he did love them and knew how difficult a time they’d both had growing up. “It’s like you wanted to hurt them.”

“No, I didn’t. None of them were hurt,” Sherlock said dismissively. It really was just a prank designed to get back at his tormenters while conveniently preventing PE from taking place that day. It had worked like a charm. His expression added the unspoken second part: if I’d wanted them hurt, they would be.

“Well, the headmaster told us to take you to a psychiatrist. He recommended a friend of his and we’ll go on Monday.” With that final statement, Mr. Holmes started to leave the kitchen, running into his wife on the way.

“Not another one?” she burst out, and Sherlock smirked. His mother obviously shared his belief that eavesdropping was the only way to find out anything interesting. 

On Monday, after many arguments, none of which Sherlock participated in, the three of them went to the psychiatrist’s office. Sherlock wished Mycroft could have been there, but apparently his two-year-old government position was so important he never had time to come home anymore. Fine, if that was how things were going to be. He didn’t need Mycroft anyway. He didn’t need anyone.

The psychiatrist was young, clearly expecting Sherlock to be an open and shut diagnostic case. Sherlock smirked, deciding he was going to play a game with this appointment.

“Do they have a list of psychiatrists they send problem students to? Were you next on the list?” Sherlock asked, sounding bored, before the doctor could say anything. 

“I’m Dr. Floyd,” the young doctor said with a smile, ignoring Sherlock’s question. “This isn’t your first time in a psychiatrist’s office, then?”

“First time? No. More like my tenth.” Sherlock answered, sitting back on the couch, looking bored. 

“So what was it this time? You father said I was recommended by your headmaster?” Dr. Floyd asked pleasantly, as if he was just having a conversation. 

“I made sure some kids who teased me got laughed at instead,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, sitting up and looking Dr. Floyd right in the eyes. 

“And you don’t think that was wrong?”

“No one ever said they were wrong for doing it to me, so why would I be wrong to do it to them?” Sherlock answered logically. 

“Weren’t you afraid you were going to hurt them?” Dr. Floyd wrote something down on his notepad, but to his credit he didn’t look scared or worried yet. Most of the others hadn’t lasted so long.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I had the situation under control. I knew they wouldn’t be hurt. Besides, they make my life miserable, so why would I care if they were?”

“So why didn’t you, then?”

Truthfully, the idea of hurting anyone had never occurred to him, not seriously. Oh, he thought about how easy it would be to eliminate his classmates, but it was so easy it was boring. Besides, there would be the hassle of the court case and the lawsuits. Why would he ruin his life for the sake of these idiots who he would never see again after he graduated? So he shrugged and answered, “Why would I? I have better things to do.” 

Dr. Floyd didn’t say anything, just wrote some more things down on his notepad. For the next two hours, he grilled Sherlock about every aspect of his life. His relationship with his parents and his brother, his lack of friends, how being so accelerated academically affected him. It all got old after a while, and Sherlock finally stopped answering.

“Sherlock, I have to get a full evaluation,” Dr. Floyd explained patiently.

“Why?” Sherlock burst out. “What does it matter exactly what kind of weird I am? Everyone’s so concerned with labeling everyone in these neat little boxes, and then they decide, completely arbitrarily, that the people in these boxes are more dangerous than the people in those boxes. Or less acceptable. Or something else that I really don’t care about. I’m on a completely different wavelength than all of these people.”

Something seemed to click in Doctor Floyd’s brain then, and he went to the doorway without a word and called Sherlock’s parents in. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Mrs. Holmes answered stiffly. They had been in this situation many times before, with both their sons. It was more difficult each time, to explain why nothing seemed to be “working.”

Dr. Floyd cleared his throat, “I know why you’re here and I wish I had something better to tell you.” 

“I don’t want to hear anything about ‘fixing’ him,” Mrs. Holmes said forcefully. “He doesn’t need to be ‘fixed.’”

Dr. Floyd smiled tightly, “You couldn’t ‘fix’ him even if you wanted to. There’s nothing wrong with him. His brain works perfectly; better than perfectly, for the way it’s wired. He has antisocial personality disorder.”

That stopped everyone in their tracks. It was, at the very least, one they had never heard before.

“You mean a sociopath, like serial killers and people who blow things up for fun?” Mr. Holmes asked, looking between Dr. Floyd and Sherlock in horror.

“We don’t really use the term anymore, but those are examples of sociopathic behavior, yes,” Dr. Floyd explained. “It doesn’t mean they all do things like that. Strictly speaking, someone who with antisocial personality disorder has no conscience; they’re manipulative, self-centered, and unable to grasp what to them are arbitrary rules of right and wrong.”

“So how will he live?” Mr. Holmes asked. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Sherlock supposed he should be annoyed that his parents accepted this so easily. That it was such an easy thing to believe about him. But he knew himself, and knew the only surprising thing was that none of the other psychiatrists had come up with it, whether it was true or not. He’d have to figure that out later for himself. 

“The same way he lives now,” Dr. Floyd answered. “He’s extremely highly functioning, and seems to have good controls over himself. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t live a completely law-abiding, ordinary life.” Sherlock almost burst out laughing. He had no intention of killing anyone, but ordinary wasn’t his style at all. Out of all the psychiatrists he’d seen, he rated this one a solid B for entertainment.

 

Later, Sherlock checked out every book on personality types and disorders he could find. He knew the technical definition of antisocial personality disorder, or “sociopath”. He didn’t think it fit him, not completely. He had a sense of justice that didn’t seem to be part of the personality type, not to mention a sense of identification with the outsiders in society. His brain idly concluded that this was probably due to his experiences of almost constant torment at the hands of his classmates before it went back to the matter at hand. Only in one obscure medical text did he find even a mention of the idea that someone could have sociopathic tendencies without everything else that went along with the diagnosis. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He should have known Dr. Floyd had it wrong, although he was closer than any of the others had been. As usual, none of society’s little boxes fit him. What did it matter whether he called it “sociopathic tendencies” or “antisocial personality disorder” or the older term of “sociopath,” however high-functioning. The line between them was so thin no one except him would even see the difference. Obviously his parents hadn’t.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe if he owned the term, made it easy to believe and convinced everyone that’s what he was, they’d all leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not really accurate for Sherlock to be considered a sociopath, but I see enough evidence in the show that it could be true, or it could be something else. So this is my interpretation, that it was a misdiagnosis (something I think would have probably happened, possibly more than once) and that he would recognize it as something he could use as his defense mechanism, which is the closest to how the series portrays it.


	4. The Rest is Just Transport

Sherlock shifted his books to the other arm and sighed loudly, resisting the urge to shove the couple that was blocking his way to the door aside. They threw him identical glares and moved aside as little as they could before going back to eating each other’s faces. At least, that’s what it looked like to Sherlock. He couldn’t understand it.

At sixteen, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was completely oblivious to the prominence of romance in, well, everyone’s lives. More lust than romance in his view, that is. It was only the onset of puberty and the increase in hormones that had made the teenagers at his school so preoccupied with it, and he couldn’t understand why no one else seemed to realize this. Instead they greeted the possibility of romance as if it was a brand new discovery that had never happened to anyone else. Sherlock had assumed this would happen to him too and dreaded it more than he wanted to admit, but so far it seemed to have passed him by. Each year more of his classmates were seemingly obsessed with pairing off with each other, until he was sure he was the only one with absolutely no “experience.” He felt like he should mind this; that there was some script he wasn’t following, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. At least he would be getting out of here at the end of the year, but from what he’d heard about university, it would only be worse.

Another couple holding hands nearly knocked him over as they ran out of the building. “Do you have to take up the whole hallway?” Sherlock called after them as he steadied himself. They didn’t even look back. Sherlock figured they were too wrapped up in each other to think about anyone else. And people called him selfish. 

The next day, Sherlock saw a couple of girls eyeing him, giggling as he looked their way. He rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his chemistry homework. For some reason, these girls were more tenacious than the others, ignoring his attempts to tell them he wasn’t interested. 

“Hey, I wouldn’t ignore them if I were you,” the guy across the study table who he’d never once spoken to said. “They’re pretty hot, you know?”

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look, “No, I don’t. Why should I suddenly ignore the fact that we would have nothing in common just because they’re ‘hot’?” He shouldn’t have let himself have an outburst like that, but he was so tired of it all. Tired of the expectation to pair off, tired of making his way through a world that suddenly made no sense. He studied the two girls, who were now mercifully ignoring him. Yes, they were aesthetically pleasing, by Western standards. Was there some extra factor that meant he should suddenly want a physical relationship? How did one know? Why was this so hard for him to get? He’d never had this kind of trouble with anything else. 

The other boy stared at him in disbelief for a minute before bursting into derisive laughter. “Are you serious? You don’t see it? Are you gay or something?”

And there we go, Sherlock thought. He knew the speculation about him being gay would start. It seemed like every boy who didn’t instantly have a girlfriend at the age of fourteen, or spend every second trying to get a girlfriend was accused of being gay. He’d wondered how long it would take for it to happen to him. He frowned, trying to frame his response. He didn’t care who was gay or who wasn’t; and had trouble trying to figure out why anyone else did. He had far better things to do than judge people for what side an arbitrary genetic script placed them on. But, all the same, he also knew that he wasn’t. He wasn’t anything. Was that possible? 

He turned on his tormenter, “Why do you care? Doesn’t anyone have anything more important to think about than who’s attracted to who?” It was all so dull. He often felt as if he was living on a completely different frequency than everyone else. He’d always felt like that on some level, but once they’d all hit their teenage years the split had become even bigger. It was like everyone he knew had suddenly received some magic signal that said “Start being interested in sex!” that he had completely missed. 

“Why do people start dating?” he asked his mother that evening. He wasn’t sure why the question was bothering him so much, but for some reason his curiosity was piqued. He didn’t mind not having this mysterious extra biological drive (the ones that insisted he eat, drink and sleep were more than enough), but suddenly he wanted to know why; if there was yet another thing that was wrong with him. 

Mrs. Holmes was far too used to her sons’ unusual requests to blink an eye at this question. “Well, if you see a girl, or a boy, you like, you want to get to know each other better.”

Sherlock looked at her blankly, “But…I thought that’s what friends do.” Not that he knew anything about that either. He was now more thoroughly confused than before. The fact that he always knew everything important about someone new with merely a glance didn’t help; nothing he’d seen had convinced him that these people were worth getting to know better. Most of them wore exactly who they were in their clothes, their hair, and their posture. There was no depth to them at all.

His mother smiled, “Oh, Sherlock, there’s something more when you start to date and you just know. When I saw your father, I knew. He was so quiet but the sun hit him in just the right way and I just wanted to get to know him better right away. It’s like when I first understood a new type of math and I just wanted to do more and more of it until I knew all its secrets,” Sherlock scoffed. He’d heard the story of how his parents had met many times; it got more flowery and romantic with every retelling. This wasn’t helpful. 

He slipped upstairs and headed straight for the Internet. At first he was disappointed; all the wisdom on the Internet seemed to confirm that one had to be attracted either men or women. Or both. But what if you’re not? Sherlock thought. He dug deeper; somehow this question that he’d never given much thought to before had taken on more importance. Finally, he found a few references to a study that was already several decades old that said one percent of people stated they’d never been sexually attracted to anyone. He smiled to himself. So it does exist. Clearly not something most people thought of, since the researchers back then hadn’t even bothered to give this new orientation a name, and no one seemed to have done a study since. The few other people online who seemed to fit the label were calling themselves asexual. Sherlock leaned back, realizing that for the first time in his life he’d found a label that actually fit him. A group to belong to, even if it was only one percent of the population. Although that also meant 99 percent of everyone else wasn’t; again, he was the odd one out. 

Then the relief hit him. There was nothing wrong with him. The feeling only grew as he thought of all the things he would never have. No adolescent romances. No awkward loss of virginity. No danger of suddenly interrupting his life with a romantic partner. He was free. He could do anything now, without fear that he’d suddenly lose himself to the drives of biology. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been dreading it until he was suddenly free of it. 

Then he frowned. Asexual. Sociopathic tendencies. Extreme introversion. Genius level IQ. He’d never wanted to be like everyone else, to fit in like a perfect cog in the machine, but he might as well be an alien for all he had in common with the rest of humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, I see Sherlock as an aromantic asexual, although I didn't specify that here. I've seen him as asexual since the very first time I watched A Study in Pink (four years ago now...when did that happen?), and I haven't seen anything in the many times I've rewatched each episode that seriously contradicts this.


	5. I Invented the Job

“Hey, Sherlock?” Reginald Musgrave caught Sherlock in the hallway in their dorm. “You have a minute?”

Sherlock sighed heavily. He’d only just come back from spending the night at the police station and wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone. Even Reginald Mugsrave, who was always so quiet and shy he didn’t bother anyone. He wished they hadn’t taken his cocaine away. He could feel the effects wearing off, his mind starting to wake up and bombard him with information. “I have thirty seconds,” he answered brusquely. 

“Oh, ok, well my father just sent me this email, but I don’t think it’s from him,” Reginald said quickly, looking up at Sherlock to make sure he was actually paying attention. “It’s his email address, but he’s never talked about any of this stuff before. And he didn’t even acknowledge any of the things I said in my last email.” 

“Your family, are you rich?” Sherlock asked bluntly. He felt himself start to sway, a combination of exhaustion and withdrawal, but his interest was piqued in spite of himself and he pulled himself together instead of retreating to his room and his stash of thankfully not-yet-illegal cigarettes. Reginald didn’t seem to notice, because he was suddenly staring at the floor.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, the land’s been in my family for generations.” He looked up. “Why?”

“Your clothes are obviously custom made,” Sherlock said. He’d already come up with five different outcomes for this mystery, all of them involving large amounts of money. His theory confirmed, he started to follow Reginald back to his dorm room, only to stumble and trip over the rug. 

“Are you all right?” Reginald asked, looking at him strangely. Sherlock had a reputation for being graceful and always in control; he wasn’t the type to simply trip over a rug. 

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock said quickly as they entered Reginald’s room. Sebastian, his roommate, was sitting on the other bed.

“God, you look terrible,” Sebastian said as Sherlock came in. “Rough night? I know what that’s like.” He looked as if this was giving him enormous pleasure to witness. Sherlock supposed it was fair; he’d noticed and announced what every other occupant of these dorms had done on nights they’d rather forget. Seeing him on the other side must have been a chance too good to miss. Still, there was something about Sebastian’s face that annoyed Sherlock almost as much as his superior attitude.

“I spent the night in the police station, if you must know,” Sherlock said, inwardly cursing himself as he said it. What a stupid thing to say; was he trying to impress Sebastian with how much of a lawbreaker he was? So he got caught with a baggie or so of cocaine. It wasn’t all that interesting, and he knew it. 

“Must you be so predictable, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, sounding wearily exasperated. 

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked, still feeling the effects of the high.

Mycroft all but pushed Sherlock into the car waiting for them. “A university student with a cocaine addiction is hardly unusual. In fact it’s downright pedestrian. Next I expect I’ll find you with a different girl each week.”

Sherlock barely hid his laughter, “Come on, Mycroft, you know me better than that.”

“I thought I did,” Mycroft said, suddenly serious. “Do you really think you can come through this with no ill effects? You have a mind others would go to great lengths for. Don’t ruin it.”

“It’s ruining me!” Sherlock burst out. “I’m bored. All the time. I thought uni would be different, but it’s the same. My mind’s tearing itself to shreds, and I’m surrounded by morons who don’t even know the periodic table. None of them have to take drugs to dumb themselves down enough to function.” He sighed and leaned against the window.

Mycroft’s expression grew sympathetic. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t relate, but it only made Sherlock feel worse. Mycroft had gone through exactly the same things and hadn’t had to turn to drugs to get through it. Why was he such a failure, that he couldn’t deal with this?

Sherlock brought himself back to the present and took a look at Reginald’s computer. He read through all the emails Reginald and his father had ever exchanged until he was able to determine for himself that the email in question was, in fact, written by Lord Musgrave. But it was so different from all his other emails, in tone and content, that something was clearly wrong. His mind started whirring, working through possibilities and how to prove them right or wrong. But somehow, he felt calm, his intellect occupied instead of simply silenced by drugs.

“Ask your father if he’s been getting threatening letters, or if he’s noticed anyone watching him,” Sherlock said. “I’ll take a copy of the email and figure out what it’s saying.”

“Wait, what are you saying? Is my father in some sort of trouble?” Reginald asked. Sebastian rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed. Sherlock paid no attention to either of them. Finally, something interesting was going on.

Two days later, Sherlock found Reginald in the library. “I’ve got it! I know what the email says.” He shoved the printed copy under Reginald’s nose. “See, every first and last word in a sentence makes sense. So it says, ‘Don’t….reply to….this….address. Will….contact you…when safe.’” Sherlock grinned, proud of himself. It would have taken him less time if he hadn’t been fighting withdrawal at the same time, but the last two days had been the most fun he’d had in ages. He’d stayed up both nights, working out possible solutions and trying to figure out why someone would be trying to attack Reginald’s father, who seemed relatively harmless for a lord. 

“You mean he’s in trouble?! I have to go home and help,” Reginald cried. Sherlock was slightly taken aback. He’d been so absorbed he’d forgotten there were actual people involved in this. Then, an impulse came to him.

“Can I come? I might be able to figure out more if I can talk to him.”

That was how Sherlock ended up ditching his classes that week to try to solve this mystery. He spent much of his time scrutinizing Lord Musgrave’s correspondence and staying up nights to see if anyone tried to break into the house. The night before they had to return to school, Sherlock was in luck. A local councilor, whose politics Lord Musgrave strongly disagreed with, came for a meeting, in an apparent effort to come to a compromise. The night had ended with the councilor trying to attack Lord Musgrave, and Sherlock jumping out from his hiding spot and stopping him with a sword he grabbed off the wall. 

Of course, he called Mycroft right away, to let him know he’d caught a criminal who could have caused a lot of political trouble, leaving by train before anyone thought to look for him. Alone as usual, but all the same, it was the most fun he’d had in years. Certainly in the year he’d been at uni. Once back in the familiar surroundings of his dorm room he realized that it had been over a week since he’d even thought of cocaine, or cigarettes, or anything addictive. Thinking about them now didn’t fill him with the anticipation they normally did. The mystery, the puzzle, the confrontation…combined it was a better high than anything he’d ever tried. He wished he could just do that forever.

Why can’t I? A little voice in his head said. It’s the best of both worlds. It takes intelligence. It’s never repetitive. There’s risk involved. Something to keep the mind occupied and the adrenaline going. In a sudden flash of understanding, Sherlock knew that was what he was addicted to. He’d spend his life searching for ever more dangerous drugs to make sure his mind didn’t tear itself to pieces out of boredom, and to feel like he was taking a risk, but this, this, was infinitely better. It fulfilled the same function, but it also served a greater purpose and just maybe, he could make a living by it. He smiled. Sherlock Holmes, private detective. No, he thought, frowning. Lots of people were private detectives. The term brought to mind following people around to see if they were having affairs. He wanted to be bigger than that. In only his first case, he’d already consulted with the government and stopped a major political crime involving an ancient and important family. Most private detectives never reached that level. 

He backed up his thought process, knowing he’d hit on something and smiled more widely. This was it. How he’d be known, remembered.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.


	6. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson

Sherlock looked around the flat, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s continuous chatter about the location and rules. His mind was on the money. He knew he couldn’t afford this place, even with the discount she was giving him. He should just tell her no and move on, so she could stop holding it for him and rent it out to someone else. But it was such a nice flat, and in the perfect location. He wanted it, badly. It was so much better than the place he was renting now on Montague Street. He left without giving her a definite answer, even though he knew that tomorrow his situation would be the same. Stupid of him, really, he thought. 

Still, the Baker Street flat stayed in his head all day, distracting him enough that he even mentioned to Mike Stamford at St. Bart’s that he couldn’t afford the flat he wanted. Stamford had looked at him with his eyebrows raised skeptically.

“You? You can’t afford rent? Your suits and your coat cost more than I make in two months.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He could explain that he got a free supply of suits ever since he had helped out the owner of a high-end men’s designer shop when they were having a credit card fraud problem (still his only high-profile case). He could explain that his Belstaff coat had been a gift from his brother on his graduation from university, before he gave up on using his chemistry degree to start his consulting detective practice instead. He and Mycroft hadn’t spoken, at least not cordially, since. But there’d be no point. People always judged by appearances and arranged their conclusions to fit their preconceived notions without considering alternatives. At times like this, he was grateful for his deductive abilities that let him read who someone truly was, without the bias inherent in guesswork. 

He turned his attention back to Stamford, who was saying, “Maybe you could get a flatmate?”

Sherlock allowed himself a smirk, “Who’d want me for a flatmate?” He pretended to ignore Stamford’s tiny nod of agreement. He knew any potential flatmate would run screaming in a matter of days; and he also knew he would lose patience with them long before that. He would have to find some way to make it happen on his own, as he always did. Maybe there was a more run-down flat in the same area he could find, although how much of an improvement on his drafty Montague Street flat that would be was debatable. He just knew had spent too long living in everyone else’s world, and he refused to do so in his own flat. 

Later that afternoon, Stamford returned with an old friend in tow. Sherlock glanced up, figuring out right away that the newcomer was an Army doctor, had been in the Middle East, had no family he was close to and needed a flatmate. A second glance told him that the veteran (John Watson, he’d have to remember that, in spite of how bad he was with names) was having trouble adjusting to civilian life, more likely due to missing the excitement of combat than to being traumatized by his experiences as his therapist probably thought. Alone in the world for all intents and purposes, drawn to danger, intelligent enough to make it through medical school and obviously trained to deal with crises. Those two minutes intrigued Sherlock enough that for the first time in years he found himself wanting to know more about someone. Why would a doctor, trained to heal people, voluntarily spend more than one tour in a war zone (because it was obvious he’d served more than one tour, that military bearing was relaxed, as if he was used to it). Sherlock had an idea that this John Watson might just be one of the few people he would actually be capable of living with. He’d have to do some more work to find out if John Watson was capable of living with him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

Afterwards, Sherlock suspected he’d come on a little too strong, which in itself was an unusual realization for him. He prided himself on not caring what anyone thought of him, but he was anxious to make sure John Watson knew what he was getting into. Best not to have a repeat of university; the revolving door of flatmates was something he’d rather forget. But John surprised him; his own interest piqued, he arrived at Baker Street the next day to look at the flat and seemed perfectly willing to live with the mess and the chaos and the rest of the baggage that Sherlock came with. Best to be sure though…

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, God, yes.” 

He hadn’t really thought he’d been wrong; John Watson wore the “drawn to danger” aura as easily as if he’d been born with it. There was no other explanation for why a man trained in healing would have spent so long in the military, for why he seemed intrigued rather than worried by someone whose reaction to four serial suicides was “Oh, it’s Christmas!” Still, it was a relief. He got so tired of pushing himself down, and then lashing out when he couldn’t any longer. With John, he wouldn’t have to tread so carefully; he could be himself with the reasonable expectation that his flatmate wouldn’t leave him hanging with the rent due. The only question was whether he’d be able to be in such close quarters with someone else. Surprisingly, he found he was almost looking forward to it. There was something that intrigued him about John Watson; some contradictions that promised to be fascinating to study. 

Of course, he was right, in ways he never expected. Within the course of one day, Sherlock found out a few very surprising things:

Explaining his theories didn’t have to be painful when it was to someone who was interested in them (and was willing to believe he wasn’t the murderer). 

Getting caught up in the game was more exciting when there was someone two steps behind him.

Conversation didn’t have to be a bore with someone who was relatively intelligent and ready to push back at him.

Things were much funnier when the other person actually understood why it was funny. No one else had ever laughed when they realized Sherlock had a habit of pickpocketing annoying detective inspectors.

Those realizations alone would have been enough for Sherlock to justify spending time with John Watson, to start to view his flatmate not only as a financial necessity but as something that could add to his life. But it was one phrase, one simple, three-word phrase that opened up possibilities Sherlock had never thought would be open for him.

“It’s all fine.” 

Said with a completely straight face, earnest, wanting Sherlock to believe him, and Sherlock, in his shock, simply swallowed his reply and said “Thank you” instead. But he’d been thrown off his game. It was all fine? What was all fine? That he was asexual, married only to his work, incapable of anything more than friendship and those few and far between? Did “fine” extend to his genius level IQ that left him adrift in a world of mediocrity? To his sociopathic tendencies, his obsessive need to take risks? Did it extend to his inability to relate to almost everyone? Experience told him “it’s all fine” would never include him, no matter what anyone said, but something in John’s expression stopped him. John…meant it. Twelve or so hours was more than enough time for Sherlock to be able to tell if someone was lying, and John wasn’t. Is this what it feels like not to be me? To be accepted so easily? Just like that? John made no sense; everyone else Sherlock had ever met would have slammed the door in his face by now. The fact that someone hadn’t was the most surprising thing that had happened to Sherlock in years, and the run back to Baker Street only proved it further. Telling Mrs. Hudson Dr. Watson would take the flat upstairs, it occurred to Sherlock with a thrill of discovery that his financially-necessary flatmate was very likely going to become his friend. 

By the next night, on their way to the Chinese takeaway down the street, Sherlock was reveling, not only on the high of a solved case and the promise of a new adversary, but in this new friendship, which threw into relief how out of place he had always been. He knew what John had done for him, understood about him that night in the empty college. John had been observing him too, getting to know him better in one day than anyone other than Mycroft ever had, and the final gunshot only sealed it. Sherlock finally understood what everyone else knew since birth; what it was like to belong, to have a place in the world. He’d slipped into place alongside John so easily it felt as if he’d always been there. No, they slipped into place alongside each other; clearly John was as much of a misfit as Sherlock, in his way. This was where they belonged, side by side. Sherlock’s world had suddenly become Sherlock and John’s world and that, to his eternal surprise, was what finally felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading and reviewing!


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